


Destiny or Bad Luck?

by courtinggtrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Banter, First Kiss, Fix-It, Geralt has feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is sad, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, well more of a slow-ish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtinggtrouble/pseuds/courtinggtrouble
Summary: Jaskier knew they were connected - in some way or another. Their history of separating and stumbling back together over the past decade was proof enough. They always found a way back to each other.So yes, Jaskier knew they were connected - by destiny or perhaps her cruel counterpart bad luck, who liked to watch him squirm and dance. However they were connected, Jaskier cursed whoever was responsible for it because guess who had just walked through the door?GeraltWitcherThe White fucking Wolf.---Geralt tries to apologise but Jaskier's not letting him off that easy
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 273





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> maybe part two?

Jaskier knew they were connected - in some way or another. Their history of separating and stumbling back together over the past decade was proof enough. They always found a way back to each other.

So yes, Jaskier knew they were connected - by destiny or perhaps her cruel counterpart bad luck, who liked to watch him squirm and dance. However they were connected, Jaskier cursed whoever was responsible for it because guess who had just walked through the door?

_Geralt_

Witcher

The White fucking Wolf.

And so, Jaskier chose the mature route of swearing under his breath and then promptly ignoring the Witcher, turning back to his companion who was telling some story he had forgone listening to in favour of tracing the delicate features of his face and imagining all the other things that mouth could do. Of course now all those thoughts had been violently kicked out of his mind by one Geralt of Rivia. All he could do was tense under the gaze of the Witcher.

Jaskier had somehow managed to avoid the Witcher for the whole time they were apart. If he’d heard a story of the White Wolf in Sodden, Jaskier would run to Temeria. He imagined the Witcher was doing the same at the sound of a well dressed bard singing about the very same Witcher.

He was aware of how Geralt felt about him but if he was truly desperate to remain out of his company he would find another tavern. After all, Jaskier had gotten here first and he’d already paid for a room so _there_ , _Geralt._ Jaskier’s eyes flicked back to where he last saw the man enter, finding an empty space. His found his heart sinking despite himself.

His gaze swivelled around the room, finally finding the Witcher again, sitting in a corner table nursing a pint of something and staring at him intensely. He had forgotten how quickly and silently that man moved. Jaskier shot him a scowl of his own.

“Do you know him?” Asked the blonde man he was meant to be listening to.

“Hm?” Jaskier questioned, feigning obliviousness.

“The Witcher? Do you know him?”

“Well, you see, he’s - uh,” he stumbled over an answer, “no, no I don’t.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. He _thought_ he had known Geralt, known him better than most, known the meanings behind his grunts, the real emotion behind the hard exterior, known that he truly did consider him a friend underneath the protests. He thought he knew him well.

Turns out he didn’t.

He didn’t know how much Geralt truly disliked him, how his grunts of reluctant amusement were likely simply grunts of annoyance, how maybe he hadn’t cared for Jaskier at all. He knew his imagination was good, but Jaskier still found himself wondering how he could have deluded himself into thinking so strongly to the contrary, how he could have missed it all.

And what had Jaskier done during that decade of following the Witcher around like a lost puppy? He’d gone and fallen in love.

Idiot.

Absolute dumbass.

Reigning champion in the dumbassery of unrequited love, really.

“Because -,” the man continued, looking past him until his gaze rested solely on something above them. Jaskier felt that presence behind him, felt the heat that somehow always permeated from the Witcher. Jaskier sighed.

“He’s behind me, isn’t he?” He asked, feeling the slight edge of panic and dread begin to gnaw at him. He would stand his ground against the Witcher, he had nothing to worry about…hopefully.

“I - I have some business to attend to.” Stammered the golden haired boy before scurrying away without even so much as another look at Jaskier. Damn, he was losing his touch.

Clenching his jaw, Jaskier turned to Geralt who was still scowling at the retreating figure of the man, quite menacingly as well. For one who occasionally visited the odd brothel, Geralt sure did have a thing against Jaskier’s…prowess.

“Look Geralt,” he began, making those intense golden eyes snap to his face. He’d come up with many a song about those eyes, none that he ever put to paper or lute. He found he couldn’t look into them, not directly. “I’ve already paid for a room, I’m not going anywhere so if you truly cannot bear my presence, I suggest finding another inn.” He was standing now, feeling small in front of the other man who was only a few inches taller. Damn those wide shoulders.

After a few moments of silence of Jaskier still refusing to look him in the eye, instead pretending to be occupied by the mighty task of picking up and packing his lute, he began to leave.

“Jaskier-“ Hearing his voice again was like a punch to the gut. That gravelly voice he’d often dreamt of. The last time he’d heard it…

Jaskier didn’t turn around, kept walking, kept walking until -

“Jaskier.” Geralt growled again, his hand wrapped around his bicep gently, urging him to turn. Urging not commanding.

Jaskier turned around, clutching his lute to his chest to keep some distance between them. He turned around, not knowing what to expect. He had definitely not expected to see a pained expression on Geralt’s face. At least what he thought was pain, he used to think he’d known every micro-expression of the Witcher’s but now… Geralt’s hand was still holding onto his bicep. Jaskier looked down at it, then at all the wide-eyed faces of the townspeople in the inn staring at them.

A terrifying Witcher and a lowly bard. What a sight they made.

With a thundering heart, he turned back to the golden eyes in front of him which had not strayed from his face, staring intently at him.

“What, Geralt?” He questioned, voice thankfully not breaking.

“I’m sorry.” Came the fast reply, so fast he almost missed it.

“You’re what?” Jaskier asked incredulously. He wondered if the Witcher had ever uttered that word willingly before.

“I’m sorry.” Slower this time, clearer. The bard glanced at their audience again, somehow even wider-eyed than before. He probably didn’t look much different.

He contemplated ripping his arm out of Geralt’s grasp and running up to his room. He contemplated slapping that beautiful face. He contemplated kissing him.

He contemplated _kissing_ Geralt.

Fuck.

What was wrong with him?

“Let’s go somewhere else.”He muttered, finally deciding that he wanted to hear what the Witcher had to say whilst also wanting some privacy for a conversation he was slightly panicked to have. He stepped out of Geralt’s grip and started walking towards the stairs to his bedroom, hoping despite himself yet again that Geralt would follow.

He was sorry? For what? For blaming him for everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life? For wishing to never see him again? Or perhaps for letting him stew in his guilt and anger for a year?

He didn’t know what Geralt wanted from him but he certainly wasn’t going to give it to him easily. Whether the Witcher knew of his feelings or not, he had still carved out his heart and thrown it off of the very cliff they were standing on. It had taken too long to find his heart again, it wasn’t even entirely healed yet. He refused to give it up to him again as easily as before.

—

“Sorry for what?” Jaskier demanded once they had reached his room, arms crossed, expression guarded. He was closing himself off from Geralt, keeping distance between them, picking his words carefully. He _never_ picked his words carefully unless they were to feature in his next ballad, it was a habit that had gotten them in trouble before. The Witcher would have preferred a kick to the face.

Geralt took a moment to study the bard. He was thinner than when he’d last seen him, his hair had grown longer. One could say he hadn’t changed much but Geralt couldn’t. He couldn’t, couldn’t say that as he witnessed the once bright flower darkened. Darkened by his presence.

Over the last year, Geralt had found Jaskier creeping his way into his thoughts constantly. Without knowing, he had let the bard make a home under his ribs. He would find himself thinking of the way the sun illuminated his chestnut hair, the way he would gently sing to himself in the firelight before sleep. He found himself dreaming of those eyes.

Those eyes which used to be a sun-touched sky in Geralt’s rather dreary life.

Those eyes which were now dark, cold.

It was unnatural, it didn’t belong on Jaskier’s face. Geralt felt guilt claw at his chest. This was his doing. Perhaps everything he touched was bound to turn cold, perhaps it was a Witcher’s curse.

“Well?” Jaskier urged, arms still crossed in front of him, still closed off.

Geralt struggled to wrap his tongue around the words he wanted - needed - to say. All those times he’d dreamt of reconciling with the bard, he had simply skipped to the part where they were travelling together again, to the part where Jaskier teased and sang, filling up that engulfing silence he had left. Fuck.

“Jaskier…I’m sorry.”

“I believe you’ve said that already.”

Geralt winced.

“You…you didn’t deserve what I said to you on that mountain. I was - I was frustrated and tired and you were there, you were always there - and - and it was just easy, easy to unload it all on you. But that - it wasn’t fair, Jaskier.”

His arms were still crossed, he was still standing too far away.

“You’re right. It wasn’t fair.” Jaskier said, eyes dropping to the floor.

Silence reigned between them.

“You know what else wasn’t fair?” He continued, “Letting me sit in my guilt and regret and bitterness _for a year.”_ He wouldn’t look at him.

Geralt found himself wanting to take a step back. The bard had many emotions that the Witcher had grown accustomed to. This wasn’t one of them. Geralt clenched his jaw, wracked his brain for the right way to say what he needed to say.

“I know.” Was all he could manage. Jaskier laughed bitterly.

“You don’t.” He took a shaky breath. Geralt willed himself to stay still at the sound, fought not to pull Jaskier in close. He knew the bard needed some space but, gods help him, his instincts refused to agree.“You really don’t, Geralt.”

“I know.” His voice came out thicker than before. He knew he should say something else, something more. _Say more, goddammit._

“What do you want, _Geralt?”_ Came Jaskier’s question, quiet, pained, defeated. The clawing at Geralt’s chest deepened. He still wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look up.

“I want…I want you to come with me…to Cintra.” Geralt replied.

Finally, _finally_ , those eyes rose to look into Geralt’s own, mutated ones.

“The child of surprise?”

“Yes, I need you with me, Jaskier…please.”

Geralt saw him struggle with himself, struggle to answer the Witcher.

“I know I hurt you and I know it wasn’t fair and I know…I know I have no right to ask you to join me.” Geralt watched the conflict, the pain swim in Jaskier’s eyes. “But, gods, I’ve missed you, Jaskier.”

The bard’s arms dropped.

The Witcher stepped closer.

“Fuck you, Geralt.”


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt hated this. If the silence left in Jaskier’s absence before was stifling, this was suffocating. The bard had barely said a word since they’d left the tavern the next morning, simply sitting on his horse tensely and riding beside Geralt and Roach. It was unsettling. It was setting the Witcher’s instincts on edge.

Geralt hadn’t said a word either, though that was not as unusual. He simply didn’t know what to say. How does one begin a conversation? Did he even want one? He wanted…he wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew it wasn’t this, wasn’t this uncomfortable silence between them. It was as if someone had thrust a veil between them, keeping them apart. Geralt itched to tear it down, itched to find a relief from the quiet.

That’s what he wanted, he’d decided, he wanted to hear Jaskier’s voice. He wanted to hear the bard’s rich timbre in song, wanted to hear the lilt of his words as he rambled about nothing, he wanted…he _wanted._ It was an emotion he wasn’t entirely sure how to address.

He also didn’t know what the bard wanted. Geralt knew he was still angry with him so why did he come? Why did he agree to join him? What did he _want_?

And so, Geralt resigned himself to glancing at the bard every so often. Jaskier seemed to be making an effort not to look at the Witcher, allowing Geralt’s yellow eyes to trace over the curve of his jaw, his nose, to observe how the sunlight lit up the planes of his face. He didn’t know when he’d come to the realisation that he could sit and watch the bard for hours. He just knew that Jaskier was here and he was warm and he was safe, and that almost made the fact that his body had been drawn tight ever since he’d seen Geralt bearable.

The Witcher finally broke the silence once the sun had begun to descend in the sky, casting the world in a warm glow. He suggested they make camp for the night, earning a curt nod from the bard.

—

Geralt was setting up the fire, nursing the flames, while Jaskier sat opposite him, strumming absently on his lute.

He still hadn’t forgiven the Witcher, not entirely. He had built a wall around his heart to keep it safe but Geralt’s small, broken “please” had pulled out one of the bricks. He _missed_ him, he’d said that, the same man who had refused to even acknowledge their friendship had said he’d missed him, had said he needed him. It filled him with a certain warm glow.

But he couldn’t go back to how they were before - wouldn’t. If he were to have any kind of relationship with the Witcher he would need some sort of affirmation of their companionship from the ever-stoic man.

He watched Geralt’s deft hands work the fire into something living. The flames lit up his stupidly handsome face. Gods, he hated that perfectly square jaw and he _definitely_ hated his longing to run his lips along it and down his neck, onto the dip of his collarbone and the hard muscle of his chest.

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

The memory snapped him back into reality, his fingers landing hard on the strings with a jarring clang. Golden eyes snapped to his face. Jaskier didn’t know the extent to which Witchers could smell emotion but he knew Geralt sensed this.

“I’m fine.” He croaked, his voice not used to going so long without speaking. Geralt frowned, clearly not believing him. Thankfully he didn’t push. They sat in silence once more, Jaskier gazing at the fire, avoiding Geralt’s molten gaze.

“Play something.” The bard’s eyes found the Witcher’s once more, finding nothing but sincerity.

“What?”

“Play something.” He insisted, gesturing towards his lute. It was very Geralt of him, to ask Jaskier to do something without actually asking. The bard didn’t mind it.

“Play what?”

“Anything.”

Jaskier blinked. Right then.

How apt it would be to play a song of heartbreak and love, the gods knew how many he had written and learnt over the past year. But gazing into Geralt’s flame-lit amber eyes, he found he didn’t want to. Instead, he decided to play something else, something his caretaker used to sing to him.

“May you never lay your head down,

Without a hand to hold,

May you never make your bed out in the cold.

The slow but pleasant tune drifted out from under his fingertips, from out of his lips, filling the space between them. The melody was warm, comforting. It was a reprieve from the tension that had lain between them since they left.

“I know this one.” Geralt uttered after a while.

He remembered.

He remembered a song Jaskier had sung.

How many did he remember?

What else did he remember about the bard?

“You were sung this as a child.” He continued, almost to himself. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile, watching the Witcher’s own face brighten at the sight.

“Oh please won't you, please,

Won't you bear it in mind,

Love is a lesson to learn in our time,

And please won't you, please,

Won't you bear it in mind for me.”

Jaskier’s voice was shaky but his voice and his fingers continued on and he was smiling and even Geralt was smiling and he was looking at him and he was looking at him like he was the only goddamn thing in this world that he wanted to look at, the only person he wanted to listen to.

Jaskier felt something in his chest unravel as he watched the Witcher’s silver hair-framed face glow.

Glow at him.

Glow _because_ of him.

He felt something in his chest - he felt the wall, the wall built around his heart crumble a little more.

“I like it.” Geralt said once Jaskier had finished. It was a simple sentence but the bard knew the Witcher, he knew he didn’t often speak his mind, or often speak at all.

“So you admit, I am a talented singer.”

“I didn’t say that, _bard_.”

Jaskier grinned. He felt it coming back, he remembered what it was like being in Geralt’s company, talking to him, bickering with him.

 _“Geralt, you hulking pillock, acknowledge my musical talent right now or I’ll kick you.”_ He had once said, the Witcher had simply snorted and asked,

_“What talent?”_

As promised, the bard had kicked him in the shins. Honestly, it had probably hurt Jaskier more than it did Geralt, but it had been worth it to see the small smile on Geralt’s face as Jaskier hopped around melodramatically, cradling his foot.

Geralt was smiling now. It was something soft and warm, something Jaskier could bask in.

But with a frown, it slipped, falling off the Witcher’s face.

Jaskier let his own drop too at the sight.

The silence returned.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Came a quiet confession.

“I know, Geralt.” He _did_ know, he did. As much as his reason warned him against it, he had trusted Geralt’s apology.

“But you do not forgive me.”

“I do not know. I do not know if I forgive you.”

He wanted to. He wanted to forgive him and simply enjoy his company without the tightness in his chest. Confusion reigned in him at the moment, not knowing whether he wanted to smile or cry in Geralt’s presence.

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

“What do I _say_ , Jaskier?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

The fire rose between them.

“What do you _want_ to say?” Jaskier asked.

“I…” began the Witcher, glancing down in frustration, “I want to…to confess to you without having the be the one to say it, I want you to simply know.” He looked at the bard imploringly.

“That’s not how it works, Geralt.”

The flames stuttered.

“I’ll go collect more firewood.”

Geralt turned.

Jaskier closed his eyes.

—

The next night they stayed at an inn, paying for two rooms despite not having much coin. Everything in Geralt screamed not to let the bard stray too far from him but he needed space, Geralt knew that.

Despite their conversation the night before, the air between them seemed lighter as they travelled, Jaskier occasionally humming a tune that Geralt found vaguely familiar. Now the bard sat waiting for him in a booth, grinning eagerly at the meal the Witcher was bringing over.

“Oh thank Metlitele.” He groaned as Geralt slid the plate over to him. He watched the bard shovel food unceremoniously into his mouth. He shook his head in amusement. Jaskier glanced up at him, spoon lifted halfway to his mouth. “What?” He asked. The corner of Geralt’s lips tipped upwards.

He gave a simple “hm” in response.

“Excuse you, all I’ve eaten for two days is stale bread and a particularly thin rabbit. I intend to savour this, thank you.” Jaskier stated dryly. Geralt grunted again, turning his attention to his own meal. His smile refused to go away so he sat there, grinning like an idiot simply because the bard no longer looked as tense, as uncomfortable around him. He was hopeless.

“Do you play?” Came a gruff question from one of the men at another table once they had finished their meal.

“Indeed I do, good sir.” Jaskier replied, flashing him a smile and catching the coin tossed to him as the man told him to play something fun. “Well, duty calls.” He said to the Witcher, grabbing his lute and beginning to play a jaunty tune.

His playing was nothing like the night before. Where yesterday his voice had been all gentle and honeyed, it was now rowdy and sonorous. Geralt enjoyed watching Jaskier sing his indecent songs to a crowd of laughing people, laughter in the bard’s own voice too. He enjoyed watching it, yet a warm feeling settled in his stomach at the thought of the soft song the night before, as if it were a performance meant solely for the Witcher.

Geralt stayed and watched Jaskier perform all of his songs, telling himself it was simply to ensure that he wouldn’t get himself into trouble. He didn’t dwell too much on the true reason, not until Jaskier fell back into his seat, grinning at Geralt unabashedly. His hair was plastered to his brow with sweat and he was panting slightly, but he was beaming like he always was after a good show. Geralt found himself wanting to brush the hair out of his face, to gaze unapologetically into those cornflower eyes.

“That was a show and a half, wasn’t it?” Jaskier breathed, it seemed as if he was waiting for Geralt to respond but all the Witcher could do was grunt in confirmation. Thankfully, Jaskier knew the meanings behind Geralt’s grunts and he grinned at the acknowledgement. Geralt had to pause for a moment, the realisation of just how well Jaskier knew him settling in. Geralt had known the bard for much longer than most, he knew all of his mannerisms, what clues to spot to know just how tired the bard was and how much longer he could continue on for. He knew what Jaskier looked like naked and while he appreciated the sparse glances, he had always looked away, too afraid of what he’d feel if he looked too long.

And Jaskier knew him just as well, which terrified the Witcher. He knew his body, his scars, he knew his fears, despite Geralt never having told him and despite his constant chatter, he knew when Geralt absolutely needed silence. His blue eyes had managed to pierce through the Witcher time and time again.

“Jaskier, I…“

Those eyes were looking at him now, expectantly.

“You what, Geralt?”

“I…” A beat. “I-“ A pause. And then,

“I’m going to bed.”

Fuck. _Shit_.

Jaskier’s joyful demeanour dimmed.

“Right, yeah, ok. I’ll go too, then.”

Fuck. _Shit._

_—_

Despite his foul mood, Geralt had managed to fall into a light sleep. He had hated watching Jaskier walk away from him to his own room. It was only one door down but the Witcher couldn’t help but feel like the bard had taken a piece of him. Now he’ll have to lay there until morning, incomplete, until the bard brought back the piece of him that he had taken…or more accurately, the piece that Geralt had willingly given him.

So, yes, despite his foul mood, Geralt was asleep - barely - but asleep.

That is, until he flung himself bolt upright in bed, nostrils filled with a stench he absolutely loathed.

 _Fear_.

Not just anyone’s fear.

_Jaskier’s fear._

Before his sleep-hazy mind could catch up, he was bursting through Jaskier’s door, Witcher eyes scanning the room and all its dark corners for danger. His adrenaline had taken over, his body itching to move, to fight, to _protect_.

“Geralt.” Came a small voice. Geralt’s eyes snapped to the bard sitting in his bed, an involuntary growl escaping the Witcher. It was in these moments that Geralt came to fear himself, to fear the animal that had taken over the man, but in the current moment he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the room was absolutely _soaked_ in Jaskier’s own fear. “ _Geralt.”_ He said again, almost pleading. Geralt couldn’t stop himself from moving at the sound.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asked, his voice coming out more gravelly than he expected. Jaskier shook his head, silver-lined eyes wide as Geralt swiped his thumb across his cheek, wiping away the tear tracks. He felt the worry slip away slightly. “Nightmare?” Jaskier nodded, hand coming up to grasp the Witcher’s wrist tightly. The bard shut his eyes tightly and leaned further into Geralt’s hand, taking a shaky breath.

“Don’t leave.” He whispered. Even if he had wanted to, Geralt couldn’t say no. He slipped under the covers of Jaskier’s bed, pulling him close to his chest. He felt Jaskier grasp onto his shirt and bury his face into the Witcher’s neck. Geralt held him tightly, trying to warm the shaking bard. He swallowed down the lingering worry and adrenaline as Jaskier slowly relaxed, the tension leaving his tightly wound body as he exhaled into Geralt’s skin.

The Witcher’s chest ached. It ached in that entirely good and satisfying way. His nose was in Jaskier’s hair and he could smell the walnut and cedar of his soap that he saved especially for his hair, the smell of pine after spending a day trekking through the forest. He no longer smelt the fear that had clogged his nose and misted his mind. Jaskier was _warm_ and he was _safe_ and he was _close_.

The ache in his chest throbbed.

His arms tightened around the bard.

The bard that he…that he…

“I love you.”

“ _What?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 3?  
> follow me @imweakmylove on the tumbs  
> please comment what you thought

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @imweakmylove on the tumbs  
> please comment what you thought


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